When last we left, Maija and Carl were forming a life-long bond based on mutual misunderstanding.

Carl was so smitten with Maija that her thirteen-year old daughter wasn’t a problem for him. Maija was so smitten with the idea of moving from war-torn Paris to New York City, that Carl could already be married and it wouldn’t have bothered her. He wasn’t. My mom was just happy to get out of the prison convent. Carl proposed; Maija accepted.

While Carl sailed back to the States with his unit, Maija bragged to her friends about hooking an American from NYC and living the dream life of a posh city woman. She and my mom boarded another military vessel and made the several-week crossing to America, along with many eager huddled masses earning to be free. The ship was no luxury-liner. The crossing was difficult. Seeing “Lady Liberty” meant more than hopes fulfilled; it meant an end to perpetual sea-sickness.

Um, what happened to "women and children first?"

Due to a snafu in paperwork, mother and daughter spent an uncomfortable night at Ellis Island. Carl met them, got things straightened out and they all boarded a train at Grand Central Station. Destination: home. The women were amazed at how large NYC was because the train ride “home” took over eight hours. Their awe and naiveté crumbled when they exited the train and got in Pépé’s beat-up truck for the 45-minute drive to a ramshackle, dirt floor, no-indoor-plumbing abode that would be their home for at least a year–a home they shared with Carl’s drunkard, lecherous father.

Lisa Douglas from the Green Acres TV show knows how my grandmother felt. Only Mrs. Douglas had it much better.

If my grandmother hadn’t perfected the Evil Eye yet, I’m sure she did during that year.

The U.S. Government had a program to escort disappointed or bigamous war-brides back to their homelands, knowing that American G.I.’s tended to lose their memories judgement while overseas while engaging in liberating and drinking celebrating. Maija and Carl had not yet married, and she certainly was disappointed, but she chose to stay with Carl. Her pride prevented her from going back. She married Carl in a quickie civil ceremony while my teenaged mom waited in a car, never knowing about the marriage until they came out and told her.

The "happy" couple years later

Mémé was a unique grandmother. She never became an American citizen like my mother did, telling us that she didn’t like America or Americans. I think she was referring to her husband, but she was great at generalizing. She loved her grandchildren, all three of us, but I don’t think she considered us truly American. Carl eventually built her a house and worked hard all of his life to provide for her. Nothing he did, however, could undo the fact that he wasn’t from New York City and he lied to her (in her mind). Pépé knew his place in the marriage, and it was perpetually in the doghouse.

Mémé was definitely the matriarch of the family.

For as long as I can remember, they had separate bedrooms; although my mom remembers a time when (probably due to space constraints) they slept together. Sleeping was probably all they were doing. In an odd moment of openness when I was in my early teens, Mémé warned me off from men and sex. We were having afternoon tea–a ritual in our family–when she all of a sudden became a sexpert. Maybe she knew I was noticing boys–something our nuclear family sorely lacked, except Pépé, who didn’t count. Mémé knew things about what others (meaning me) were thinking. That scared me. She said in her seriously broken English, “Sex. No good. It wife’s duty. Anyway, only do when have to. It not fun.” That scared me more. I didn’t even know what sex was, but follow-up questions weren’t allowed. She never mentioned sex again. No wonder mom was an only child.

I'm just saying nothing good ever comes from a man wanting to use his you-know-what down in you-know-where.

Fast forward to the mid-1990s and to Mémé’s supposed deathbed. From what my mom told me, her confession went something like this, only in French and without the occasional gasp for what she thought was her last breath:

“I must tell you about your real father.”

“The French soldier who died in the war?” My mom tried to help her along.

“No. Your real father.”

This was breaking news for my mom. “Okay…”

“I met a man when I was out dancing one night. He was your real father.”

“What’s his name?”

“I can’t remember.”

“What did he do for a living?”

“He owned a market. Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“Because he was a Jew. I couldn’t be associated with a Jew. Not then…before the war. I was afraid. He asked me to marry him but I said no. We’d all be dead by the Nazis if I married him. Even his brother said he would marry me. I told both of them I never wanted to see them again. I put you in a Catholic convent to keep you safe.”

That’s all she ever said no matter how many times we would ask her for details. She said she didn’t know what we were talking about until senile dementia took her away and she even forgot who she was.

My mom found out in her 50’s that she was half-Jewish. I found out in my mid-thirties that I’m a quarter Jewish. When I told Chuck, his response was, “Well, that explains a lot.” I wonder what he meant?

Okay. So I like to wear a tiara, don't mind a little attention, can take you on a guilt trip like no travel agent ever dreamed, can say "chutzpah" with the proper phlegm-ish, and make the best Challah this side of the Gaza Strip...

But that’s not the only surprise about my family that I got in the mid-1990s…

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Ah, the book. These stories are nearing an end. That means I have to organize them into something coherent and create a manuscript. But the bones and a lot of the flesh is already there. I’m close. Now I have to get someone interested in picking it up…I’m starting to explore publishing options. Yikes!

OMG LOL I know I should perhaps not be but I, too, once lived in a shoe with a mother/father hubbard of unknown cupboards myself. Different contents from yours perhaps but what a ride to me, myself and I.

I can’t wait to buy the book so I will stop losing my place and the grace of your sharing that reminds me, I too, must get cracking on my story.

I never knew how good my grandmother was at keeping secrets until this one came out. I know she had her reasons, and we never questioned adults and their reasons back then. Very different from today and how kids are always challenging their parents on everything… 😉

Interesting twist in the tale. It is so understandable that you grandmother didn’t want to reveal this part of her life. I think she had a right to keep it to herself even with the lack of a father for your mother. People were raise
(especially, women) differently. This was probably a cross for her to bear.
There are things that happen that you don’t want to talk about. I’m sure that is why Meme did not tell your Mom before. I would imagine the thought of the Nazi’s hurting her or your Mom took precedence. It’s a shame that she didn’t have a name but what if the “Man – Father” – would have rejected her??? A more powerful blow than the unknown.
In the end, we all do the best we can even if the best isn’t the best as you see it.
Hugs,
Izzy xoxox

Yes, she made her choices and I never felt too badly for her. She sure felt badly for her, though! 😉 The person I felt badly for was my step-grandfather (who you’ll learn about in upcoming posts). He was such a sweet, gentle man and didn’t deserve the second-class status he got in our family.

Thanks for stopping by and reading. Glad to have you aboard this wacky journey of mine! 🙂

I don’t feel too bad for Meme, she got what she wanted, which was out of France. Maybe she didn’t get the penthouse view, (darling I love you but give me Park Avenue), but she did get a new (?) lease on life. Ok, so maybe I’m looking though rose colored glasses, and a shot of tequila, but you’re here, so I’m thinking it’s all good. You go girl. enjoy always, T

“Sex. No good. It wife’s duty. Anyway, only do when have to. It not fun.” What? I tell this to my daughters every day. What? Come on already it’s been a whole day, lets go give us the rest already, while i’m still young!!!

A good account of a woman with few choices and an iron will. Hindsight is 20-20 but I’m thinking she did absolutely the right thing.She protected her child from great danger, thought she was improving that child’s lot by moving to America and then hung in there. After all, isn’t that what life is about mostly, hanging in there? My proof it was a good decision – you, Lorna.

mollyJan 13, 2012 @ 21:09:25

How courageous was your Mémé? So few resources!
Imagine if Maija had remained in Paris?
Lorna … lives in a studio with view of narrow twisting cobbled backstreets and trips the light fantastic as she strolls the Montmartre and sips wine at dusk around a crowded little table on the Avenue des Champs-Elysees.
By day she rocks tutorials and tutors at the University of Paris Sorbonne,
cheers catchul8r molly

What a great story! How hard it must have been to keep that secret, but she did it to keep her baby safe, that is so moving. And then hilarious (in the most respectful way) that she spilled the beans and got better and had to live with that. What did you say? Me? Nothing. Yes I see it as a book, but for that scene, I see it as a movie with Betty White, or even Monty Python style with John Cleese dressed as her.

There’s no tragedy in being part Jewish. I hope I didn’t suggest that. The shocking part of the story is how close my grandmother and mom came to being Nazi targets in Paris during that antisemitic time. If things had gone another way, I wouldn’t be here telling this story. Then where would you be? 😉

Phil, you always make me laugh out loud at the same time that you flatter the…the…shoes off me. Amway. Only you would come up with that visual! 🙂

My mom is one stoic woman, as you’ll soon learn. She was a bit surprised but happy to learn the truth (or as much as she could of the truth) of her life. She hated the Catholic convent and the horrible nuns who seemed to hate children. At least now she understood why her mother kept her there even when she begged to be anywhere but there. Since she lived most of her life never even being allowed to ask about her father, he became a non-entity in her life. That is to say, she never spent much time thinking about who he was. So this revelation was more interesting than shocking.

The last bit of the story about the “Jewish American Princess” was my effort to suggest that we incorporated this new-found knowledge with a grain of salt. It would have been nice to know something of my real heritage (genetically at least), but my grandmother made that impossible. No use crying over lost opportunities…

From seemingly mundane circumstances of ordinary lives and ordinary people spring some of the most extraordinary tales. Just shows how totally unique our lives really are. Your gift however is in your prose – if flows easily and holds my attention. Most family histories have the capacity of clearing out a room quicker than an Amway presentation, but you manage to draw in the reader and leave them wanting for more.

Tell me, how did your mother react to this news? How was she affected?

Lorna, not wishing to be outdone I am now rummaging round my own forebears’ cupboards. If there is a skeleton I haven’t found it yet. Though plenty of cobwebs, and the odd bit of dirt swept under the carpet.

Since you were talking about Kudos (you know where) may I suggest that worse things can befall one than to have a drop or a litre and a half of Jewish blood in your veins.

Not easily dropped please do continue to keep me on tenterhooks: You are doing a grand job.